


My becoming.

by Eadwine63



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Sexual Content, Will embraces the darkness, i can do better, it's not really all that graphic for a Hannibal fanfic, somewhere between Mature and Explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3921874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eadwine63/pseuds/Eadwine63
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There has always been Eros, and there has always been Thanatos. No one knows that better than Will and Hannibal. Especially when Will feels his lifeline breaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My becoming.

I feel him watching me. Watching, with that look of pride and victory unmistakably written along his features. He walks around the room, to watch me from different angles, and redirects his gaze from my fingers to my eyes. He watches my hands dig in to the soon-to-be dinner and watches the shadow and the light dancing across my eyes. Sometimes he whispers to me; words of guidance, words of praise. Yet he's mostly silent, because my hands have become his in a way; a surgeon's hands that know perfectly well what they're doing. Cut here, severe a tendon there. Careful not to ruin the organs, not to spoil the flesh. He watches and waits. 

"This is your becoming," he says at the dinner table and tips the bottle of wine to me in a silent question to which I raise my glass and let him pour. The wine makes me think of the blood that had stained my hands and arms an hour ago, but still I raise it to my lips. It tastes wonderful, like everything that Hannibal serves me. Positive association.

I feel distanced from the meal he serves, even if an hour ago I felt the most intimate connection to the body that has provided it. The lingering intimacy of the kill starts to mix with the guilt and the fear of losing myself, of not standing strong anymore. I’ve long lost my lifeline – or maybe I’ve just simply held on to a sinking anchor instead. 

When I raise the first bite to my lips, I feel a shiver that's not even the tiniest bit laced with disgust. I close my eyes as the tender meat melts on my tongue, delicious. There’s a part of me that wants to cringe at what I’ve done, at what I’ve … become. But the rush hasn’t quite faded yet. I open my eyes again, watch him watch me. 

"You've outdone yourself," I compliment.

"No, Will," he says after savouring a bite, "you have." 

His words make me smile, involuntarily. It's always the little things that catch me off guard. There are always involuntary smiles, touches, jokes. There is always that thin line I'm walking on, and the concern of crossing it has long become irrelevant. Instead I fear it will snap completely and that there will be anchor nor lifeline. Hannibal might think the line has snapped - but I rather think the fibres are unravelling even if to Jack I pretend they are not so frail. 

I hide a slight tremor in my hand by bringing another bite of today's meal to my lips, but I know well enough Hannibal's eye for detail. I know he noticed it, the uncertainty and the rising panic inside me. He catches me before my thoughts can consume me – to plant more of his, no doubt. 

"Don't go inside, Will. Stay here." 

"With you."

He nods. I look at him. I look him in the eyes, try to see what's in there because even after getting so close, there is scarcely anything I understand about him. I understand the killer, perhaps, but I do not understand the man. He wears a perfectly tailored suit to fit into society, but he also wears one to become the killer he is. My fingers itch to tear him apart at the seams, to know him for who he really is. To know what drives him, his reasons, his purposes. All of them. 

I will stay with him, until I know him inside out. Until I know every dark secret, no matter how small. I will crawl inside his head as he has crawled into mine. 

Reaching across the table, he takes my hand - the one that trembled just the tiniest bit – and lets the silver fork drop to the table. 

"It overwhelms you, does it not?" 

I don't give him an answer. Everything overwhelms me. The fact I killed a man, no matter how innocent or wicked. The fact I'm literally internalising my kill, that I'm savouring bites of him and rolling the flavours around on my tongue. I'm overwhelmed by how much I like how he tastes. 

Hannibal's mere presence overwhelms me, because there is so much to him that I cannot fit it into my own mind. It overflows with him. The warmth of his skin on my fingers overwhelms me.

"You are unique, Will. Your empathy enables you to feel the intimacy of a kill much more clearly." 

"Violence and intimacy. Eros, Thanathos."

I remember every twitch of the man's body, every bit of agony in his eyes while he still breathed. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed watching the agony, the struggle, the twitching. Hannibal knows as much. But it isn't enough and it will never be enough until the man who struggles to hold on to life beneath my hands is the same man who sits across from me right now, holding my hand, thumb caressing ever so lightly. 

"I still imagine killing you," I tell him as I look at him. He smiles and I wouldn't have expected any other reaction.

"Violence and intimacy," he repeats and lets go of my hand. "Finish your dinner, Will."

He keeps locking eyes with me as bites of tender meat disappear between my lips. He watches my throat when I swallow. Each bite seems to unravel my threads a little more. I wonder how Hannibal changed from being my anchor, my fort in the middle of a storm, to the one I come to when I want to feel ... They'd call it unstable - Jack and Alana. But killing under Hannibal's watchful eyes, I never felt more stable. 

His hands brush mine when he wants to clear the table of our plates, but the moment I feel the tingle of flesh against flesh again, I grab his wrist. He puts the plate down again. 

"I need to see you," I murmur. 

"You saw me," he replies and I shake my head.

"I saw the ruthless killer, saw the perfect man. I never saw you, not all of you." 

Somewhere beneath all the carefully constructed image he poses, there has to be a flaw. I need to find a flaw, I need to find mistakes. But I do no longer need them to change him, or even to catch him for Jack's sake. I need to see him, because I want to see him. I want him on a level I never thought existed. I want him to come undone as I did. 

There's a crackle in the air and my chest constricts momentarily as he moves one inch closer to me. I can feel the energy between us and his lips against mine so quickly I forgot whether he leant down or I pulled him down by the wrist. And everything falls into place for a few seconds and I feel like this is what we're meant to be, where we're meant to be. 

I will see him unravel. I will see him come undone. 

One day, I will have him at my feet as he thinks he has me at his. 

When he looks at me, I wonder if the hunger I see in his eyes is reflected in mine so clearly as well – now and any other times. I’ve never seen it in Hannibal’s so clearly, but maybe that is simply because this is a different kind of hunger. There’s always been interest where I was concerned, I know that. There’s always been our game of cat and mouse, hunter and prey, the desire to obtain and undo. The desire that lurks in Hannibal’s eyes is a simpler one – or maybe it’s much more complicated than our hunting game. 

“Don’t go,” Hannibal whispers. A few weeks ago, I’d have gone home, or I would have pulled up walls ten feet high and wrapped the tops with spikes and wires. But tonight, my becoming is what he wants and what I want is much more than becoming a killer. I want what Hannibal has never given before. I want to be witness to his change like he has been mine. I want to witness the layers coming off, the suits peeling with every article of clothing I remove. 

I smile. I want the intimacy as much as the violence, perhaps even more so. I want to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze the air out of his lungs while my lips devour the last of his breath. I want to bury my hands in his skin. I want … him. All of him.

“I’ll stay, if you let me.” 

Hannibal’s answer is a new kiss, one that is more gentle than before, as if he’s stalling. There is a world of anticipation and imagination – a whole universe of unspoken yet understood intention. It’s a small victory when he buries his hand in my hair and pulls me up out of the dining room chair just like that. 

Hannibal’s bedroom is new to me, but it’s yet another carefully crafted décor.

I never assumed he’d be gentle in bed – and with him, I don’t think I would be either. Sex is primal and feral between us, and yet it can only be the utmost intimacy. The only moment Hannibal is gentle is when he’s teaching me or when he’s cleaning blood off my hands. The gentle moments are the ones after the violence, after the kill. 

It will be the same when I sleep with him. 

I wonder if he’d even care if I ripped his suit to pieces right now, but instead I take the time to help him out of it properly. Shirts are unbuttoned, belts undone. Red plaid clashes with lush grey and when my jeans fall on top of his trousers, he finally lets go of the pretence and pulls me against him. Skin flush on skin, I can feel the heat and the urgency. I can feel the predator inside of him when he draws my lip between his and worries it. When he looks at me, I can see the fire that consumes me in his eyes. 

My hands grip his arms, short nails digging in. His hands tug at my hair and then he’s pushing me on the bed, hovering over me like he’s about to kill his prey. I expected nothing less, but the surge of violence I feel inside of myself comes quite sudden nonetheless. And it’s the mutual surge of violence that keeps us going, that keeps us playing. It’s the urge to bury our hands inside the other and the urge to unravel more, to see more that keeps us clawing instead of digging. When Hannibal’s mouth touches mine, it’s to devour. When his fingers run over my body, it’s to possess. 

And when mine run over his, it’s to claim and map out his body. It’s to remember and discover. Maybe pleasure will catch him off guard. 

“Will,” he all but growls my name and despite the rough edge to his usually considerate voice, it’s still the most intimate moment there’s ever been between us. 

The crackling fire makes me see him. The desire makes me see us. It makes me know myself and maybe, I can see him too. 

“Focus,” he tells me. “Stay here.”

“I can’t,” I reply. “There is too much.” 

He pushes himself up a little as if he wants to study me rather than to fuck me. For a moment, he does. He looks at me like I’m a rare specimen, just like he did before I embraced everything he threw at me. 

“I see so much,” I mumble. I see flashes of murders I haven’t even known about. I see flashes of a lonely childhood. A sister. I see pain and I see retaliation and loneliness. 

“Do you know what made me desire you?” I moan when his mouth latches on to my collarbone and his hand wraps around my growing arousal. “It is the way you’re so like me, and yet so unique. I needed to know you. I needed you to be mine. Like you need to see me, Will.”

“You saw to my becoming,” I groan. I feel like I’m already his, even without the physical aspect. He saw me change. Now it’s his turn. “There will be a reckoning, Hannibal. My reckoning.”

“There is only reckoning if there have been made mistakes.” 

“Embracing does not mean forgiving,” I tell him and shut up the conversation by pushing my body up on his. Our erections brush and that dangerous glint is back in his eyes. 

Instead of feeling threatened by him, I merely feel competition. When I look into his eyes, I wonder if my reflexion it still me. I barely recognise myself. I barely recognise the man who grabs Hannibal and somehow ends up on top of him, hands around his neck, erection pushing against his stomach. I rock my hips and tighten my hands. My head tilts back and his hand comes to rest on mine. He’s awfully sure of himself, isn’t he? It fills me with rage. And yet I’m so sure I won’t kill him right now. 

It would defeat the purpose of this night, wouldn’t it? 

Everything overwhelms me. Everything conflicts inside me. I want Hannibal to overwhelm me, but I want the control he’s granted me as well. I want him to be the quiet in the storm, the anchor to ground me. 

“I want to look at you.”

“See me.”

I rock my body against his again and only then realise he’s not finishing my sentence, but inviting me instead. He submits as much as he can allow himself to do so. 

There is no more playing around. There is pain when I lower myself on his erection that is only slickened with pre-come and spit. I don’t want to take the time. I want the control and I want to lose it at the same time, and this is how I want it. 

Hands around his throat, squeezing but not killing. Hannibal’s eyes roll back when he’s inside me completely. I revel in the sight. I revel in the piece of thread that unravels. Intimacy becomes violence and violence becomes intimacy. 

The pace is rough enough to leave a lasting, physical memory, but I won’t have it any other way. There is no place for gentleness between us – at least not right now. There isn’t even a place for teasing. There is simply the need, the itching in my fingers. They look in his eyes when he nears the edge of orgasm. And I feel such pride when I’m the one to throw him over the edge and make him lose control for a second. It’s not more than a second because even through sexual release, I’m well aware Hannibal controls every inch of his body. Except for that second where his eyes revealed more than primal desire for violence and lust. 

It throws me back when I feel that little bit of affection. Why is it here? Surely Hannibal isn’t able to really care about this. Not when this is about instinct, not when this is just an extension of murder for him. Surely Hannibal cannot love, because the layers of him are too complex to penetrate.

I’ve never been more than a study. I’ve never been more than a clinical interest, a psychological anomaly. 

Maybe we are the same, after all. 

Maybe that is why Hannibal kisses me as he caresses me through my own release and holds me so desperately close. 

There is intimacy in violence, and there is gentleness after, in the moments before the game will pick up again. 

And this, this holds my true becoming.


End file.
